


the other way around

by alderations



Series: Whumptober/Mechtober 2020 [16]
Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alderations/pseuds/alderations
Summary: If Tim weren’t such a nosy wanker, this never would’ve happened.(Whumptober Day 16: hallucinations; Mechtober Day 16-18: fabric)
Relationships: Drumbot Brian & Gunpowder Tim
Series: Whumptober/Mechtober 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950916
Comments: 11
Kudos: 86
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	the other way around

If Tim weren’t such a nosy wanker, this never would’ve happened.

The Toy Soldier has its own pod, which consists mostly of the workshop where it does all its woodcarving and storage space for the things it carves and all of its assorted military accoutrements. Apparently this isn’t  _ enough _ storage space, however, because when Tim opens the closet next to the game room, an enormous heap of clothing falls directly onto him, knocking him to the ground.

Once he realizes what’s happened, Tim thrashes about under the mountain of fabric until he figures out which way is up and manages to extract his head from the mess. At this point, he gets a good look at what’s fallen on him, and realizes that it’s mostly military uniforms.  _ Of course.  _ The Toy Soldier has a large and varied skill set, but organizing closets is apparently not its forte, because the heap around Tim is incomprehensible at best. He starts fighting his way out of it, unburying one arm and then another, when something familiar brushes his hand and he freezes.

It’s been millennia since he was mechanized and yet, somehow, the specific texture of a British infantryman’s uniform has never left his subconscious. Tim’s fingers latch on to the fabric without his permission, and he drags it into the light, staring at the dull gray coat with eyes that should be blurry. He wishes he could cry. Then, at least, he wouldn’t have to see the long-dried blood splattered across the front of the uniform in such clarity.

He doesn’t have to read the name printed on the front of the coat to know who it belonged to; the bloodstain radiating from mid-abdomen tells him enough.

Why the Toy Soldier has Bertie’s uniform, he has no idea. Or even  _ how,  _ for that matter, since everything on the moon—the Toy Soldier and Jonny included—was thoroughly destroyed by his own efforts. There’s no room in his head to wonder how it got here, though, not when he’s too busy looping the last few moments of Bertie’s life over and over again, watching the shock on his face in the light of a muzzle flash and then nothing, only the sound of his ragged breaths as he bled to death. Blood hot and slick on Tim’s hands.  _ I’m sorry,  _ whispered inches from his ear as Tim curled around Bertie’s body and begged him to be okay.

“Took you long enough.”

Tim’s head snaps up, searching for the source of the voice, but there’s no one around him. “What do you want?” he groans, burying his face in the old uniform just so he doesn’t have to face whatever bullshit his brain is throwing at him today. At least his eyes generally stay on the side of reality.

“My uniform’s been on this ship for what, three thousand years? And you just found it. Could’ve sent it home to my family or something, but no,” Bertie says. Tim can’t breathe. “Selfish prick.”

“I didn’t know,” Tim offers. He doesn’t know where to look. Bertie’s not  _ there.  _ “I didn’t think…”

Bertie laughs, dry and humorless. “You didn’t  _ think  _ I’d die, either. Bulletproof little kids, you and me. And look at us now.”

“Please stop,” Tim begs.

For a moment, the voice goes away, but by the time Tim picks himself up and shakes off the dusty pile of clothing, Bertie’s ready to berate him again. “Probably good that I died when I did. I’d really hate to have stuck around to watch you turn into  _ this.” _

Tim goes still. His head feels hot, all the rage and shame and loneliness that should be vented into tears just stuck in place. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, what, that being alive is  _ hard?  _ You’re so lonely and tired of existing that you just start murdering for fun? You must feel so awful. Poor sweet Gunpowder, corrupted by all the  _ life  _ he has to live, because there’s no other option. No chance to just get rid of himself and make the universe a better place. Just—”

“Shut  _ up!”  _ Tim throws Bertie’s uniform on the ground and stomps on it, as if that’ll shut him up. “Fuck off! I know I’m a monster, I know you’d hate me if you were still alive, I don’t need to hear it, okay?”

“Tim?” This voice isn’t Bertie’s, but Brian’s, and Tim goes rigid, unprepared for  _ another  _ voice to start berating him. “Are you alright?”

Oh.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and turns to find the Drumbot in the flesh—or, well, metal—coming down the hallway. “I’m fine,” he snaps, blinking a few times as he struggles to pull himself back into reality. “Go away.”

Brian frowns. “Who were you talking to?”

“No one. It’s nothing.”

“You’re shaking,” Brian points out, as he comes to a stop directly in front of Tim and scans the open closet and the tangle of uniforms on the floor behind him. “You don’t look good.”

Of course he doesn’t fucking  _ look good.  _ “Sorry to disappoint,” he grumbles.

“No, that’s not—wait, what is this?”

Brian leans down to pick up the uniform on the floor, tugging a sleeve out from under Tim’s boots. As soon as he sees the name on the front, he goes still. “Oh,” is all he manages.

“Yeah.”

“I… had no idea TS hung onto this.”

Eyes boiling with rage, Tim stares up at Brian and sets his jaw.  _ “Hung onto  _ it? So you  _ knew?” _

“No, I mean—it managed to grab some, uh, keepsakes from the Moon War, but I always thought they were just, like. Moon rocks. Plasma cartridges. Little things like that. No, Tim, I didn’t know it had… this.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Tim’s neck, but not much. “I’m going to fucking dismantle it next time I see it,” he growls.

Brian looks concerned. “I don’t see why that would be necessary. It probably thought you’d want a reminder of him, and besides, wasn’t it friends with him, too? Maybe it just—”

“A  _ reminder?  _ After three thousand years?” A sardonic laugh rips from Tim’s throat. “Fuck off. It’s not—it’s just—I don’t need a stupid jacket to  _ remind  _ me of him. He’s always in my goddamn head anyway, telling me what a fuckup I am, that if I’d been the one to die instead none of this would’ve happened and Earth would be fine and—and—”

“Tim,” Brian interrupts him. There are metal hands on his shoulders, cool and solid, and Tim realizes that he’s heaving with dry sobs. “That’s not really him. You know that.”

Tim’s face crumples. “Of  _ course  _ I know that,” he yells, torn between the desire to run away and the need for Brian’s grounding touch. “I’m not a fucking idiot. He’s gone. Except my piece of shit  _ brain  _ can’t get with the program, because I guess yelling at  _ myself  _ isn’t cutting it anymore.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, I know that was rude, I just didn’t want to—to lie to you.”

Heaving a sigh, Tim faceplants in Brian’s shoulder and lets the Drumbot steady him with a gentle hand on his back. “One of these days, we’re going to teach you some tact, I swear.”

“Good luck,” Brian deadpans.

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello! first of all: i have a whole lotta Symptoms Disorder but i do not have auditory hallucinations and while i did some research, im not necessarily confident that this is an accurate portrayal by any means. if it's like, harmful or negative stereotypes etc, please let me know (within your comfort level)! these things are important to me.
> 
> in other news! had that job interview! got offered the job less than an hour later!! so i am leaving retail hell!!!!!! 8000 party popper emojis. this fic is kinda short and stunted because a) brain meat very scattered after scary interview and long work shift and b) i am REALLY getting to the point where i need to start putting new words into my brain and not just taking them out. I read some recent fics in the mechs tag today, at least, because I've gotten behind on that, but... hopefully now that the interview is out of the way, I'll be able to convince myself to pick up, like, a Book.
> 
> anyway... hope you all enjoyed?? as much as you can enjoy me torturing our dear lovely gunpowder. got some other exciting ideas in the pipeline. stay tuned ;) and comment if you so desire!!


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